


blood and death

by raffinit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 05:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19846657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: The memory sat hot like bile in her throat and squeezed out from the corner of her eyes.“I shouldn’t have come back,” she mumbled. “I should have stayed away.”----------------------------In the aftermath of the Battle of Kaer Morhen, Ciri grapples with the consequences.





	blood and death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peppermint_smile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermint_smile/gifts).



> I just wanted Family Feels and then it became sad

Ciri looked up into the parapets and swallowed a gasp. Hair black as ink and skin paler than snow. Her heart rose into her throat as she heard the familiar, dulcet cry of her name. A fluttering rush of exhilaration and nerves bundled tight in her stomach, and she stepped away from Vesemir to move towards the rapidly approaching woman.

Out of habit, she straightened her shoulders. Neatened her hair.

Yennefer cared not a whit for any of it. She flung her arms around Ciri and held the girl tight. Very tightly.

Ciri brought her arms around Yennefer and held on just as desperately. “Mama,” she breathed, burrowing into the scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

“My daughter,” Yennefer said, and her voice trembled as she pulled back to look into Ciri’s face. Violet eyes gleamed, warmth and relief palpable as she stroked a hand through ashen hair and cupped the young woman’s cheek. “My girl.”

A prickle of heat built behind her eyes, and Ciri squeezed them shut tight to keep the tears from welling. They sat thickly in her throat, more so when Yennefer pulled her back into an embrace, tender and knowing.

It felt, at last, like coming home.

\--------

It felt like the end of days.

It was as if grief itself had shrouded the Keep. The skies were bleak and grey, the winds bit and wailed. There wasn’t a soul in Kaer Morhen that didn’t feel it. She could still hear the snap of bone, still see the look of utter horror and grief on Geralt’s face, on Eskel and Lambert and — 

Tears came unbidden to her eyes again, stinging on her cheeks as the frigid winds blew them stiff. She had cried so much it hurt to blink.

Sitting on the parapets, huddled away from everyone, Ciri was sure she would go mad with it, this overwhelming loss and hurt and anger. If only she hadn’t come back — if only she had just stayed on the Isle of Mists —

The touch of a cool leather glove on her bare shoulder startled her. Lilac and gooseberries.

She wiped her face quickly, sniffling into the back of her hand. “Mother —”

“Daughter,” Yennefer murmured, and her delicate hand belied the strength beneath them as she squeezed Ciri’s shoulder. “Come inside. Please. You’re shivering.”

Ciri breathed and it shuddered in her chest. She turned to look at Yen, and at once she was struck by the timeless beauty of the woman and the heavy weight of exhaustion in those violet eyes. A prickle of childish anger took her; perhaps, if Yennefer had kept hold of the shield for but a moment longer, Vesemir might have lived.

She looked into her mother’s eyes and saw the same thought, and the blame dissipated as quickly as the winds blew.

The ache in her chest festered, and Ciri slowly uncurled herself from the flagstones. Yennefer opened her arms and Ciri fell into them without protest.

The cold bled into her bones and stayed there.

\------

The water was hot. Too hot, but Ciri sank deeper into the tub, knees tucked to her chest. The damp heat of it clung to her bare shoulders above the water. Around her, the ends of her hair spread like white veins; roots drifting in nothingness.

She stared but saw nothing; touched and felt nothing as she threaded her fingers through the gleaming strands. Behind her — a quiet noise of heeled boots against the flagstones. The soft scrape and thud of a stool being placed behind her.

The smell of lilac and gooseberries as Yennefer perched on the stool. The gentle touch of bare hands — such slight hands; who knew would hold such power? — against her shoulder and neck as Yen gathered up her limp, damp locks.

Ciri sighed, and it shuddered in her throat as the smell of Yen’s favourite shampoo began to waft between them. She loved it the same; it smelled like comfort and home. Better times. But now it only made the ache in her heart grow.

They sat in long silence as Yen washed her hair; the gentle touch of a mother’s hand that worked the grit and grime and knots from her hair. When was it last that they had sat like this? With the quiet crackle of firewood and the encompassing scent of lilac and gooseberries around them. The quiet hum of a tune somewhere in Yen’s throat.

She felt the faint thrum of magic behind her; felt the wash of warm bathwater that never dripped or spilt running through her hair.

“You were only ten and two when we were last sat like this,” Yen said, running a fine ivory comb gently through her hair. “Do you remember?”

“I remember,” Ciri mumbled, but couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. “It was after my first blood. I remember crying from the pain. Begging you to help me. I remember how much it had hurt.”

“How desperately you called to me that night,” Yen said, with profound weight. “How much you pleaded for me to end your suffering.”

She remembered it clearly still; the stark red of the sheets beneath her. The pain of something deep within radiating outwards so sharply she’d bitten her tongue and felt not a lick of it. How gently Yen had guided her into the bath. How softly she spoke as the tub filled and together they rid her of the bloodied gown. How warmly Yen had washed her hair and plaited it into a gleaming crown about her head.

The glow of violet plumes; the magic that dissipated the aches and pains from her body. The warmth and comfort of Yen’s embrace as she slept tucked into the sorceress’ arms that night.

The memory sat hot like bile in her throat and squeezed out from the corner of her eyes.

“I shouldn’t have come back,” she mumbled. “I should have stayed away.”

Yen’s touch took on a steely grip on her shoulder. “He knew what he was doing, Ciri,” she said. “He would’ve given his life for you no matter the circumstances. We all would.”

“That’s exactly why I should’ve never come back here,” Ciri spat, rising from the water abruptly. It spilt and sloshed messily over the edge of the tub, and she was keenly aware of the fact that it had spilt onto Yen’s clothes. A childish part of her wondered if she would get a tongue-lashing for it, but Yen simply wiped the drops away with a wave of magic.

She rose from the tub and wiped down brusquely, rubbing at her arms and legs until they were pink and raw from the abuse. It did nothing; quelled little of her temper, calmed none of her nerves. Everything seemed too much and not enough. She was not enough.

“Cirilla.”

She stiffened at the name. Coldly, over her shoulder, she said, “My name is _Ciri_.”

“Call yourself as you like,” Yennefer said, approaching the girl. When she rounded on Ciri, her mouth was set in a stern line and her eyes bright with conviction. “But you will listen, daughter. Vesemir's death was a great loss to us all. He was a good man. A strong man. He was also a Witcher. He knew the risks that came with the title, but more so — he knew the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe.”

Ciri looked away. “I know what he did. I don’t need a reminder.”

The flame in Yen’s eyes softened slightly and she reached out to cup Ciri’s cheek. Brushing her thumb over the deep scar on the girl’s face, she said slowly, “He loved you dearly, my darling girl. Where Geralt was as a son to him, you were his daughter...his grandchild, even. He loved you more than he could say. Do not dishonour his last sacrifice. Do not let it be in vain.”

A tear wept slowly down Ciri’s face as she leaned into the touch. It was a painful thing; a fact that only stung all the more for the truth of it. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and let out a shuddering breath, sniffling slightly.

“Everyone has given so much for me,” she whispered, reaching out to lay a trembling hand over Yen’s delicate wrist. “I’m tired of losing people.”

“You haven’t lost us yet,” Yen said gently, peering into her face. “You _won’t_ lose us.” Then she set her jaw and nodded firmly. “And neither will we lose you. Not again.”

The stubborn set of her jaw and the proud jut of her chin was familiar, and endearing to Ciri. She gave her mother a wan smile. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” she whispered, looking away as a sudden rush of shame filled her. She wasn’t a child anymore; not a babe needing comfort at her mother’s breast.

The harsh lines of Yen’s face softened entirely, her violet eyes gleaming. “Of course, dearest. Always.”

Ciri dressed wordlessly; the day had wrung her dry of everything. Her words, her strength, her grief. The weight of it all bore heavy on her shoulders, and she barely found the strength to stagger into the nightshirt Yen carefully laid out for her.

Entirely too big for her, sagging over her lean frame down over her thighs. Soft and well-worn; well-loved in the way the strings of the neckline were cut and sewn.

She recognised the smell. Lye soap, grass and earth, and the lingering bite of copper and ichor of monster blood. It was a scent that never washed out, a brand on all of their clothes from their time on the Path.

She lifted the collar of it to her nose and breathed in the scent slowly. “This is Geralt’s shirt.”

“Your father won’t miss it,” Yen replied. “He runs hot in the night, you know this.”

“Clean, I hope?”

“As clean as it can be.”

Ciri turned and looked at her mother. Dressed down as she always was when she slept, in black and white as ever. Yennefer was a vision of perfection, of beauty incarnate for as long as Ciri could remember, but that night, her keen eyes saw more than smooth porcelain skin. Dark, spreading bruises on her elbows and knees; mottled ones building along her collarbone.

Bruises hidden from sight previously, all laid bare now.

“Mother,” Ciri gasped, staring as she reached out to trace a hand worriedly over the closest bruise to her. “What happened?”

Yen looked down at herself, surprise colouring her features as she took in the sight of her injuries. It was a rare thing — Yennefer of Vengerberg forgetting herself. Forgetting the importance of _appearances_. But these were times of war, and Ciri wondered if Yen even knew she had been hurt.

“Just a tumble on the flagstones,” she said quickly, with a terse smile. “Never you mind, sweetling. It’ll be gone by morn.”

(Ciri will learn later, of the sheer feat it had been for her mother to sustain the shield over Kaer Morhen. The way she had collapsed on the cold flagstones, sapped of her strength, from protecting them. Exposed in the open, without sword or shield to keep the Wild Hunt from happening upon her and spilling her crimson blood on the stones. It was only by luck — surely sheer dumb luck, or perhaps blind fate — that the Hunt did not reach her.

She will learn of the great lengths with which Yennefer had gone to ensure their survival. To ensure her safety.

All for her.)

For years of her youth, and still now if she was being honest with herself, Ciri thought her parents untouchable. Invincible against all threats, despite knowing all too well the warmth of their blood on her hands.

Yennefer had always seemed to be the tallest person in the room. The most powerful sorceress in the land.

She had seen her mother’s beautiful skin marred in wounds too many times.

Ciri pressed her lips together and said nothing, only threw her arms around Yen’s shoulders and held her tight, mindful of the bruises. She felt Yen’s chest heave with a breath; a sigh as delicate hands came up and held her the same.

“My brave little duckling,” Yen murmured, stroking Ciri’s hair. “Enough of this, now. It’s been a long day. Come to bed.”

Wearily, Ciri nodded. They fell into bed together; mother and daughter, dark to light, embraced in lilac and gooseberries.

For the first time in a long time, Ciri did not dream.

\-------

Life on the run taught Ciri many a thing. From her time at Kaer Morhen with Geralt and the Temple with Yen, there were things that Ciri had learnt that helped her traverse the pathways of different worlds. Sometimes it was by the skin of her teeth, but what she knew best was that she was a survivor.

To sleep and wake at a moment’s notice had been the most important lesson Ciri had learned.

The second lesson was how to regulate her breathing as she laid awake. She heard the heavy steps and knew who had come without having to open her eyes. Recognised the soft, gravelly breath that came as Geralt climbed the steps up into the tower. Pressed tightly to Yennefer, face tucked deeply into the woman’s neck, Ciri found little motivation to move, but kept her senses aware of the room.

“Quietly,” came her mother’s voice, low and sharp. Yen’s arms tightened on her briefly, and Ciri kept her breathing level and deep, sighing faintly as she nuzzled closer under the guise of seeking more comfort. It moved her enough for her to open her eyes a bare sliver, and through the low hood of them she could see Geralt.

He nodded wordlessly, moving as quietly as he could towards the fire. His armour was gone, shed, likely, along the way up. Even beneath her lashes, Ciri could make out the weary slump of his shoulders, the stiff, stilted way he carried himself as he moved on bare, soundless feet towards the tub.

Yen hummed something low under her breath, and the tub began to steam once more. “Wash quickly and come to bed. I won’t have you stinking of wraith blood and grime.”

“Brought the bed back, did you?” Geralt mumbled.

“A new one, without red hair or monster blood,” she whispered back, and in her voice Ciri could hear the slow drawl of exhaustion. “Do hurry, dear. It’s been a long day and the room is too cold.”

“Can throw on more wood if you want,” Geralt offered, grunting softly as he sank into the waters. Ciri slid her eyes shut and sighed again, her fingers tightening over Yen’s back.

A gentle hand began to thread through her hair, and Ciri shivered faintly at the sensation. “Mama,” she mumbled.

“Hush now, sweetling. It’s only Geralt.” Delicate fingers skirted gently over her brow.

Ciri blinked her eyes open drowsily, staring up at the hazy shape of Yen’s face before turning to where Geralt was already towelling off. Palming the sleep from her eyes, she mumbled, “Papa?”

She watched the criss-cross of scars on Geralt’s back shift as he stiffened. It was only an instant; a moment that would have been lost had it been any other peasant girl watching him. Any other person but Ciri. The tension in his back and shoulders melted away slowly, and he turned his head to glance at them, the furrow in his brow softer. His golden eyes like sparks of ember in the night.

“Yeah. ‘s just me, kid. I’m here.”

A breeze wafted inwards through the windows, the biting chill lingering from the Wild Hunt, and Ciri shivered. She tucked in closer to Yen, though her mother’s skin was cool and soft, only faintly warm from their embrace together. “Then hurry to bed,” she mumbled, tugging the covers higher over her shoulders. “It’s cold.”

Geralt made a soft noise in his throat, fastening the lacings of his pants. He moved towards the bed and braced a knee on it carefully. Ciri peeked through an eye as he leaned down and captured Yennefer’s lips for a slow, gentle kiss, stroking a callused hand over her cheek.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“How is anyone feeling?” Yen replied. “It matters not. Come to bed and I might feel better.”

Geralt made a grating hum in his throat, and Ciri didn’t need to look at him to know the frown on his face. “Triss said —”

“I thought we agreed we’d keep talks of our fiery little sorceress out of the bedroom.”

He clicked his tongue mildly. “Yen, I can see the bruises.”

“And you won’t in the morning,” Yennefer replied, a warning in her voice. “It’s late and I’ve had quite the day. If you’re not getting into bed then make yourself useful and throw on another log on the fire before you leave.”

A tense moment passed between them, and Ciri shivered to break from it. “Papa, get in bed,” she whined, huddling closer to Yennefer. “It’s cold.”

Yen’s arms came around her again protectively. “Listen to your daughter, you fool.”

“Right.” Geralt paused for a moment, only long enough to kiss Yen sweetly again, murmuring something against her lips. Then he tugged the covers back just enough to slide in beside them. Ciri sighed with relief at the heat of his body radiating; Witchers were all adaptable to the harsh weather, but Geralt seemed to run the hottest.

Sandwiched between them, Ciri snuggled in deeply into the blankets, wrapped tight around her mother as Geralt pressed in close behind her. His arm came around them both, steady and strong; covered in a lifetime of scars and new ones alike.

She felt his breath against her hair, the sigh of a man long-weary. His arm squeezed around them tight. “We’ve got you,” he murmured. “Rest.”

Ciri closed her eyes and slept. For a fleeting moment, she was warm and safe.

For a moment in time, she had her family.


End file.
